


The Price Paid

by grumpu



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpu/pseuds/grumpu
Summary: When Hawke arrives to save her mother from the murderer, Quentin, she is too late. Stitched together and scarred, her mother dies in her arms. Kirkwall demands a high price—has the Champion of Kirkwall finally paid it in full?





	The Price Paid

**Author's Note:**

> This was my headcanon after playing through DA2—I felt that my Hawke's reaction to her mother's death, after losing both her brother and sister, was lacking and didn't feel very genuine. In a rival relationship with Fenris, this is something I would have preferred to see, given that we never really see how Hawke grieves after she's lost everything. Fenris didn't really quite play out as I think he probably should have, but this is what I imagined. 
> 
> At the endgame, Hawke experiences such great loss at the hands of Kirkwall that she takes neither the side of the mages nor the Templars, and instead chooses to work with Meredith only to relish in killing her at the end.

The dirt floor was hard on Hawke’s knees. The weight of her mother’s body didn’t help this fact, and for the life of her she didn’t understand why this observation mattered in the moment, but she couldn’t shake the thought. She was just so fucking tired.

Hawke could feel the gaze of her party on her back as she sat with Leandra’s body—knew Aveline would be just as affected as she was, as Leandra had considered her yet another daughter after she had joined them on their journey to Kirkwall. Fenris remained mostly silent, Varric only offering a deep sigh at yet another life lost.

Finally, after a long moment, she laid her mother’s body on the ground; the milky eyes remained on her, but she couldn’t bear to keep the contact as her mother turned cold. She knew she should deal with the body… bury her, cremate her, something. But her knees sang as she stood, her back tense as her muscles clenched and refused to loosen. Her fists were next. Balls of fury and rage at her sides.   _First Carver, then Bethany, and now Mother. Yet another price to pay._

If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

“Let’s go.” Hawke turned, apparently in no real rush, and exited the Dark Foundry, stepping over Quentin’s body. The morning sunlight was muddy when they emerged outside, a rainy day ahead in Kirkwall as the grays of a coming storm mixed with the sunrise. She could hear the ocean as it slapped its waves against the tall seawall not too far away. The salty air did nothing to loosen the hard, hot knot that had formed in her chest. Hawke couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

Varric mentioned something about meeting him at the Hanged Man when she had some time, and he departed shortly after. Aveline went on to make a report on the case with the guardsmen but said she would be by the estate later on. Hawke didn’t acknowledge any of it, and Fenris must have made noticed because he left shortly after with only a hand on her shoulder—though the small spark that usually ignited at his touch was gone this time. Hawke went home.

 

* * *

 

 

Gamlen’s voice barely reached her as she sat in front of the fire, answering his questions about Leandra. Hawke hadn’t found tears to shed yet; she remained steadfast as her uncle began to grieve.

“Did you find the person who killed Leandra?” His voice filled the small study they occupied. Hawke stood to face him.

“Yes. He’s dead.”

Gamlen turned to leave but paused on his way from the room. “…I’ll take comfort in knowing that you killed him.”

Some part of the knot in her chest made a dangerous slip. She could feel the shift—a swell of something she couldn’t name coming to the surface. It didn’t feel like grief or sadness or loneliness now that she was left only with an uncle who felt nothing for her. After Gamlen disappeared around the corner, the urge to run to her room like a child and hide under the covers until the nightmare was over almost won out. Surely this was all a bad dream. She’d wake up any moment now. Surely…

The quake was sudden and intense. She felt it inside of her, a rift between her beliefs and the reality of her situation. She refused to run. She wasn’t a child, but she could feel the break coming. Measured steps carried her up the stairs and to her room, and the thin layer of control she had lasted long enough for her to nod a greeting to Bodahn and his son as she passed by, and though Bodahn spoke to her—surely some sort of apology for her loss—she didn’t hear it. She only had enough of herself left to close the door gently at her back before she leaned against it, closed her eyes.

The shift she’d felt downstairs shook through her again. Her fists clenched hard enough that the half-moon of her short, neat fingernails dug into her palms. The pain only barely centered her, anchoring her in reality. But her rage was quick to take over. She took a few more steps to the center of the room and stopped.

Had she not hesitated when Carver and her mother had faced down the demon on their way to Kirkwall… taken Bethany to the Deep Roads… had she been there for her mother… none of this would have happened. _Had I done literally anything else, this wouldn’t have happened._

The sound she made next didn’t register to her own ears. She reached for the nearest thing—one wooden chair beside a small table she kept in her room—and threw it against the wall. It splintered with the force.  The table was next, followed by anything else in her range. Vases, statues, books, furniture, even paintings on the wall were subjected to her wrath.

At some point, Fenris had entered the room, but he only shut the door behind him to wait out the storm. He watched, not unfamiliar with this stage of grief, as she struggled with the frustration and sorrow he could feel emanating from her. He let her ride it out and crossed his arms over his chest, out of the way.

A few minutes later, finally spent, she sank to her knees. _How appropriate,_ she thought, looking at the destruction around her. Her long auburn hair, usually kept and shiny, was dull with the stress and unkempt, tendrils falling on either side of her face as her loose braid hung over her shoulder. She looked as she felt: lost, wary, alone. Silent, her chin hit her chest as she closed her eyes, trying desperately to catch her breath.

 “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.”

She startled only internally; she’d learned early on in Kirkwall to outwardly betray no feeling or thought. There was always someone eager to use it against you. She didn’t turn to look at him.

“Is there anything that can be said? Anything that can excuse the mistakes I’ve made? The burden I forced onto my family. Had I not brought us here, had I not insisted on doing things my way… Bethany would be alive. Had I been faster, been _paying attention_ , Carver and Mother would be here. I hesitated. That demon killed Carver because I was too busy looking after myself to look after him. I was too busy looking after fucking Kirkwall to look after my mother. They’re dead because of me.”

The bitterness in her voice swelled, a sick soundtrack to the stiffness in her shoulders and the bile in her throat. Fenris tilted his head, considering. He didn’t approach her, not yet. He knew it wouldn’t be welcome, and while they often disagreed on methodology, his heart broke for her, for a younger Fenris who had also lost everything in Tevinter. His voice was smooth, level, despite the intense emotion in the room.

“You are looking for forgiveness, but I’m not the one who can give it to you.”

The knot just wouldn’t give. Even after letting loose her temper, her chest wouldn’t release so she could breathe. She couldn’t fucking breathe. Her shoulders hitched with it. Her staccato inhales took on a different tone, turned to dry sobs as she whirled around, throwing her hands up in a broad gesture.

“Then what _good_ are you? What _good_ is any of this?” She could feel the prick of tears, tried to fight it back. “I insisted on doing what I could to help Kirkwall, to make a better life for my mother and sister. But for what? What does any of this matter now?” She gestured to the room, the life she’d built off the money she’d earned becoming the Champion of Kirkwall, then paced, an animal torn between rage and despair.

“The mages and the Templars can’t see anything beyond their own fucking noses. Templars would have broken Bethany had I sent her to Circle. A mage killed Mother with his _greedy_ blood magic. If it weren’t for blighted mages and Templars and their infighting, we could deal with the damn demons and darkspawn, and Bethany would be alive! Mother would be alive! Carver… Carver would be alive. Templars and mages… so fucking _useless_!”

She came to a sudden halt. The tears were drying, being replaced by the shape of an idea that Fenris could see was turning dangerous. He could see the shift in her attitude, the way her brain clicked on as she made the connection. He opened his mouth to say something, to turn the tide or try to stay it, but she spoke first.

“This ‘O’ worked with the mage who killed Mother…” she said it almost to herself, referring to the letter they found in the Dark Foundry. A thoughtful tone took her voice, calculating. “Sent him materials on blood magic in secret, even though this mage wasn’t in the Circle and blood magic is forbidden. What if the Circle and its mages do nothing but serve magic? What if the Templars are right about them?”

“Hawke—”

“And Templars… Meredith can’t function beyond her own hatred of mages… But is she wrong? Mages are dangerous. We’ve seen what they can do when they are left to their own devices! But the Templars are so obsessed with the Circle that they aren’t protecting those of us who have no magic outside of the Gallows.” Her hands went to her temples in frustration as she roamed the room, restless. “For fuck’s sake, a mage shouldn’t have been able to practice blood magic unnoticed in Kirkwall with a Knight Commander like Meredith. Where were they when _I_ needed them? They can’t be bothered to look at mages beyond their own reach, and even that’s asking too much. Every time I turn my back, another mage-turned-apostate needs to be brought back or killed. Must I do everything?”

“Perhaps, but—” Fenris began to move forward, holding out his hands in hopes to pause whatever her tirade was about to conclude.

“They’re worthless, Fenris! Templars and mages are nothing but the dual edges of a bloody knife, two sides of the same problem. If we do away with both, for the people with no magic inside them… what if Kirkwall was only home to regular people? Even Templars have a degree of magic in them. What if Kirkwall just… banned magic? Banned anyone who harbored magic?”

“And how do you propose we ‘do away with both?’ Are you going to kill every person who shows a hint of magic, Hawke?” He was careful here. His tone reflected only an honest question, with no hint of doubt or accusation. If he denied her the release she needed at this moment, he might lose the ability to influence her at all. If that happened, and she began to actually _believe_ in what she was saying, he might not be able to stop her if he lost her trust.

“I don’t… know. No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m just so tired, Fenris. I can’t give any more.”

And there it was. A kernel of the truth he’d wanted her to admit. Kirkwall had not asked a small favor of her. He knew this; their entire party knew it. Even he had asked things of her in the past. Though she wasn't faultless, she hadn't deserved the hand she'd been dealt, and had actively tried to make life better for the family that had been displaced by the Blight. Had tried to repay her mother in some way for the death of her brother and sister—both consequences of Hawke's decisions.

He drew a sigh, came forward, and took one of her hands. “You know how I feel about mages. About magic. The lyrium in my skin…  I know all too well what mages, left unchecked, will do for power.” He studied her exhausted expression, her eyes downcast to his chest.

“It doesn’t take all mages to cause the madness we see in Kirkwall. It only takes the weak ones. And Bethany… she wasn’t weak. She chose to go to the Deep Roads with you, asked you go along. But if she were here, would you punish her for this? Call her a murderer for the actions of another mage?”

Hawke looked up at that, watching him as tears welled.

“A weak mage killed your mother, it’s true. A weak mage turned to blood magic, and your mother paid the price. You have paid the price. The Templars failed you, yes, but if there was no Circle, who would stop the weak mages from turning to abominations, from killing more innocent people who harbor no magic? Useless as they may be, we need Templars. We need the Circle.”

He squeezed her hand, pulled her a little closer.

“I understand. Truly, I do. I understand the need to cast the blame you’ve found. To punish those you deem responsible. To find some form of relief from the weight you feel on your shoulders. But this isn’t the way, and I think you know that.”

She studied him for a long moment, and in an instance of pure weakness, cracked. The tears finally fell, fat droplets down her cheeks as her heart broke. But she was mostly silent. Her eyes squeezed shut against the tears, and Fenris pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her and her forehead dropped to his chest.

It didn’t last long. Maybe ten minutes, but no longer. Once she was done, she didn’t pull away, didn’t lift her head, but drew in a deep breath, feeling the release of her chest. They said nothing for some time, standing together in front of her fireplace.

Finally, she nodded, stepped back.

“Thank you, Fenris.”

He only nodded in response and turned to leave the room. However he might have felt about her at that moment, the need to be alone was one he was very experienced with and recognized when he saw it. He left the room, clicking the door shut quietly behind him.

And stopped when he saw Gamlen at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the banister, dried tears staining his cheeks. How much the uncle had heard, Fenris couldn’t say. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder in passing but said nothing else as he left the Hawke Estate.


End file.
